


The Ideal Man

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dancing Lessons, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fix It Fic, Floriography, Hurt and comfort, John POV, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Stag Night, The Sign of Three, john leaving mary, s3 fix it, sherlock POV, text conversations, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 03:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14440113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: John doesn’t keep me waiting long. He never does.





	The Ideal Man

**Author's Note:**

> This story involves a character leaving an abusive relationship. It contains brief depictions of emotional abuse but no physical violence.

“Well, John?” Mary’s impatient voice cut through my daydreams suddenly. 

  


“Er, sorry, what? What was the question?” I glanced at Sherlock for help and he nodded down at the trio of cake slices arrayed on the table in front of us, his eyebrows raised. 

  


Mary hissed her annoyance before replying, “Which one do you like best? Sherlock likes the daffodil, and I like the vanilla cloud.”

  


“Er. Hmm,” I looked at the slices. “Which one’s which again?”

  


Mary sighed irritably, but Sherlock pointed at each plate in turn, “That’s the daffodil; it’s chocolate with lemon buttercream filling, and I suggest you do it without the fondant, as everyone only peels that bit off anyway. That one’s the vanilla cloud. It’s sort of. Cake-flavoured cake. And that’s the strawberry fields. It’s got strawberry slices and strawberry preserves alternating between layers. Which is fine if you like slippery things. Could be enjoyable, if you find the texture of dead frogs festive. If you say they all taste the same again, Mary might actually do you in this time, which. Would be a bit awkward.”

  


I snorted, “Why’re we even arguing about this? Chocolate. Only sort of cake worth eating, isn’t it?”

  


Sherlock grinned at me, but Mary rolled her eyes up at the ceiling, “Thank goodness we have Sherlock here to tell us what we think, mm? Well come on, fiances. Flowers next. We’re nearly late.” She got up and swept out. 

  


I looked at Sherlock, “Flowers is today?”

  


His mouth tilted wryly, “Yep.”

  


“That may bring my boredom up to terminal levels.”

  


Sherlock squeezed my shoulder, “Such a pity. I thought we had more time together.”

  


I laughed as I finally stood, and we ambled out after Mary, “I don’t know how I could possibly be expected to be of any help at all with flowers, seeing as how I don’t know an agapanthus from a hole in the ground.”

  


“Oh John, don’t be silly. Nobody uses agapanthus in wedding arrangements,” Sherlock’s hand had found my shoulder again, and it really was quite bracing, even though he was laughing at me. “Just remember the colours are lilac and yellow, and you’ll be all right.” 

  


“Sorry, excuse me, sir! Mr Watson!” We turned on the threshold of the cakeshop to find the baker hurrying after us. “Did you want to place your order now before you go?”

  


“Oh. Er, no sorry, not at the moment. Got to dash. We’re late for flowers apparently. My fiance will ring up and place the order later on, I think.” 

  


The baker nodded, “Ah, lovely. Thank you very much. We’ll be waiting for your call, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock’s hand slid off my shoulder, but he only nodded, and the baker disappeared back into the shop with a cheery wave. 

  


“What does that make about the dozenth time that’s happened?” Mary said when we caught her up on the pavement just outside the cake shop. 

  


Sherlock made his pretending to get a text face and tried to hide behind his phone. 

  


“The dozenth time what’s happened?” I asked. 

  


“Someone has assumed the two of you were the ones getting married.”

  


“Well it might help, if you didn’t call us fiances. Bit misleading, that.”

  


“It might help if  _ you _ didn’t-”

  


“Oh fuck me,” Sherlock said suddenly. Mary and I turned at looked at him, “I’ve forgotten there was a really interesting corpse at Barts’ morgue, and Molly could only hold him for me until today. Sorry! Must dash. See you tonight, John.” And he flung open the door of a cab that seemed to have materialised out of nowhere and jumped in. 

  


“Oh, er. Bye, I guess,” I said to the retreating cab. 

  


Mary took my arm, “He’s totally in love with her,” she murmured conspiratorially. “And her engaged. Poor man.” 

  


I didn’t jerk my arm away, though I wanted to, “Not likely.”

  


Mary laughed and patted my hand, “If you say so, dear.” 

  


“She’d been after him for years. If he fancied her, he’s had more than enough-”

  


“Well that was before. Things change, don’t they? Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  


“Not that much.” 

  


“You know best,” said Mary sweetly. “Come on, witless,” she tugged my arm, “time to go and learn an agapanthus from a hole in the ground.”

  


…

  
  


Did you find me something pretty for my buttonhole?  -SH 

  
  


Yeah, a white rose and lavender and some fluffy stuff I can’t remember the names of. 

  
  


White rose for charm and innocence. Dubious choice.  -SH 

  


Lavender is appropriate, though. Loyalty, love, and devotion. -SH 

  
  


If you don’t stop quoting that book at me, I’m going to make you eat it. 

  
  


You’ll want petunias for resentment and anger.  -SH 

  
  


How’s Molly?

  
  


Molly?  -SH 

  


Hooper. 

  
  


Oh, that Molly. Normal, I should think.  -SH 

  
  


It didn’t come up.  -SH 

  
  


Why do you ask?  -SH 

  
  


Some people consider it polite. 

  
  


Is that a veiled critique of my manners, John Watson?  -SH 

  
  


Not all that veiled. 

  
  


I will take your concerns under advisement  -SH 

  
  


Nah, you won’t. 

  
  


Might do. I’m lavender, after all.  -SH 

  
  


I like you all right rude, anyway.

  
  


Apparently so.  -SH

  


What time am I seeing you tonight?

  
  


Are we having dinner together?  -SH 

  
  


If I can get away. I might say we’d always planned it that way, actually. That’d work. 

  
  


Yeah, let’s have dinner. 

  
  


Don’t let me tear you away too soon.  -SH 

  
  


You aren’t. 

  
  


Shall we call it half past 7, then?  -SH 

  
  


Good, perfect. See you then. 

  
  


…

  
  


John arrives at twenty past seven. I hear him let himself in with his key, and he comes to the bathroom doorway to watch me brush my teeth. He is freshly shaved (can see the bright dot of drying blood under his right ear where he nicked himself) and dressed to go out in his favourite brown suede jacket and matching boots. Catch eyes with him in the mirror when I spit and rinse. 

  


“Don’t forget your hair product,” John remarks as I wipe my face. 

  


“I’ve finished with that bit, actually,” ruffle my hair at the front. It’s looking a bit heavy. “Nearly ready to go.”

  


“You’re not even dressed. I’ve never seen you wear a vest before.” John steps into the bathroom, squinting at my exposed upper arm. “I don’t remember that scar. Who the hell stitched  you up? That looks awful.” He reaches out to rub the scar, and it tingles under his fingertips, as if the wound were still newly healed.

  


Grimace and resist the urge to hide the scar under my palm, “No, you wouldn’t. I stitched it.” 

  


John meets my eye in the mirror again, “I’m sorry.” 

  


Shrug, “You have nothing to apologise for; it wasn’t your fault you weren’t there. Anyway it’s over now. Pass me my shirt? It’s hanging on the door behind you.” 

  


John half-turns and twitches my shirt off the hanger, then hands it to me, “Take me with you next time. Will you?”

  


Buttons are being defiant, “I rather hope there won’t be a next time, John.”

  


“There won’t. But. If it comes up. If you’re ever. Wondering. Take me with you. Okay?”

  


Nod slowly, “Okay.” 

  


John steps back so that he’s straddling the threshold again, “I’ll just let you finish up.” And off he goes back to the sitting room, before I can think of an answer. 

  


…

  


When I join John in the sitting room, he’s bent over my desk,  _ How To Write An Unforgettable Best Man Speech _ in one hand, and my notecards tumbled about on the desk in front of him. His lips move as he reads silently, one corner of his mouth turned up, his brows knit in bemusement. John nudges one card aside to read another, his eyebrows rising nearly to his hairline as he reads (which bit could that be?)(try and go over it in my head, then push it away)(not the time to fall into my mind palace). He glances up toward the bathroom, then does a double take to see me standing there. 

  


“That isn’t finished yet,” I know there isn’t any point in collecting the notecards and tucking them back into the book, so to stop myself doing that, I go and pull on my jacket and scarf instead. Scarf isn’t on the peg. Got bled into; keep forgetting about that. 

  


John scoops the cards into a stack and replaces them in the book, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Well, they fell out of the book.”

  


“So I gathered.” 

  


John makes a little cough (his eyes are bright)(!)(?), “Ready to go? Where er. Where’re we going, anyway?”

  


“Angelo’s first, then we’ve got a pub crawl. Every street where we found a body. Oh, I nearly forgot. Need my equipment,” Pop into the kitchen to fetch the beakers. 

  


“Right, I am not drinking anything out of that,” John says when he sees the beakers. 

  


“They haven’t had any science in them! They’re new. And I sterilised them this morning, because I knew you’d be this way,” waggle one at him for emphasis.

  


John laughs and brushes the beaker away from his face, “Resistant to ingesting one of your experiments? Brilliant deduction; you ought to be a detective.”

  


Smile, “No science, John! Anyway, I don’t experiment on you. Well not that sort. Nice things.”

  


John smiles back, “What sort of nice experiments have you done on me, then?”

  


“Two week investigation to determine your favourite song.”

  


John grins, “And?”

  


“Queen. I Want to Break Free.”

  


John laughs, “No!”

  


“John, I’ve studied the matter extensively, and I can assure you of the irrefutable, empirical truth of my findings.” 

  


John, still laughing, takes his beaker, “You know I don’t think I know your favourite song. Does that make me a bad best friend?” 

  


Still rather startling when he calls me that, “Well, we can’t all be lavender.” Stupid joke (face gets warm)(hope I’m not blushing) Clear my throat, “I’m sure you’ve more frame of reference on the subject than I do.”

  


John’s face goes rather serious under his smile, “I don’t think I do. I’ll see if I can deduce it, all right?” 

  


“Help yourself John, as always. It’s really quite flattering to be deduced.”

  


John nods, “Yeah. I’ve always thought so.” 

  


…

  
  


“Stop,” John gasps, leaning against the back stairway banister, holding on for dear life as if he might just laugh himself off the planet. “Stop, stop, I’ll die!”

  


I do not stop, as I’m doing nothing but laughing along with him and in protest or affection or some other nameless whim, John grabs my coat sleeve and pulls me toward him til I crash into him, then sit down hard on the stair just above the one he’s standing on. Hurts like anything (going to leave a bruise, I think) but it only increases our hilarity. John crumples into a wheezy heap on top of me, and we’re a helpless tangle of limbs and giggles for what seems like a long time. 

  


Presently, hiccoughing loudly, John pushes himself to his feet, takes me by the hand, and pulls me the rest of the way up to our flat (not ours, mine)(stop it!). John takes off his jacket and rather clumsily divests me of my coat to hang them side by side on the hook by the door. Then he makes his swaying way to the kitchen. He returns in a moment with two glasses of water, one of which he holds out to me. 

  


I accept, “Thank you.”

  


“Let’s sit, okay? It’s a bit,” John twirls a circle in the air with his index finger and whistles, “spinny.”

  


We take our chairs. We sip our water. John’s hiccoughs fade, but his giggles linger for a time, “How did I not know what herbal soothers meant?” 

  


“Because-”

  


“Because I’m an idiot?” John interrupts. 

  


Frown, “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  


“Charmingly naive or something like it,” John suggests in a rather broad imitation of me. 

  


Shake my head, “Because Mrs Hudson usually puts her reefer in chocolate biscuits instead of smoking it.”

  


John grins, “Oh. Yeah.” 

  


Smile back though am actually quite stung, “Am I that nasty?” 

  


John shakes his head, “Nahhh. You’re not nasty. You’re.” He thinks on it so long that I wonder if he’s going to continue at all. “Sweet. You’re sweet.”

  


Groan, though am very pleased at that remark (would indeed be mortifying in anyone else’s mouth, but it’s lovely from John), “You won’t put it on the blog, will you?”

  


John shakes his head, crosses his heart with one finger, “I don’t tell them everything.”

  


“Nearly everything.”

  


“Some things I keep,” John protests. “I never told them about the dancing lessons.” 

  


“True.”

  


“And I’ve been practising. I’m getting better.” John rises from his chair and steps towards me, then halts. “Put the. The thing on? The music?” Reach for my phone and obey. John offers me his elbow, and I take it. John draws me a little ways from our chairs, slips one arm about my waist, and leads me with large, confident steps in a waltz around our sitting room (not ours not ours). His smile shines into my face, none of the blushing and stumbling or prickling bravado that usually characterises our dancing lessons. 

  


“Are you impressed with me?” he asks after a few rotations.

  


“Very.”

  


John nods satisfaction, “You always care when I try. Even when I’m still rubbish.”

  


His face is too soft (hurts to look)(can’t exactly shut my eyes), “You’re not rubbish, John.”

  


“Mainly not maybe,” he agrees. “But there are some things.” 

  


“We’ve all got some things.”

  


“Even you?” 

  


“Especially me,” firmly. 

  


John’s hand slides up my back as the music swells, “Ready to be dropped?”

  


“You aren’t going to drop me; we’ve got it,” slightly more confident than I feel as he most definitely dropped me the last time we tried the dip. But this time, John, buoyed by his tipsy assurance, eases me onto my back in his arms, with not even a wobble, and we both laugh with relief as he raises me up again. “You see? You did it perfectly.” Let go of John’s neck rather reluctantly. 

  


“Thanks,” John beams. “Let’s do it again. You lead this time.”

  


“You know you’re going to have to-”

  


“Yeah, I know, but I feel like I learn it better when we switch.”

  


“You know how to do it, John. You just need to trust that you still know it every time you try it.”

  


“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this song before. Just humour me, all right?”

  


“If there’s one thing I’m talented in,” go back to the mantel and restart the music. 

  


“Lavender,” John says when I return to him. 

  


Takes me a moment to cotton on, “Hmm?”

  


“Love, loyalty, devotion.” 

  


“Oh,” blink hard. “Quite.”

  


On my shoulder, John’s hand quivers ever so slightly. He clutches my jacket to quiet it, and we dance in silence until the dip. “Do you like her?” John asks suddenly, when I’ve raised him from it. 

  


“I. Erm.” Well, that’s done it. The pause is the answer, whatever comes after. 

  


“It doesn’t matter,” John says after a moment. 

  


“No?” We’re still holding each other. His fingers are toying with my curls at the back of my neck (making me stupider than even the drinking and the drugs). 

  


“ _ I’m _ the one who can’t make her happy, so. It doesn’t much matter if you like her. It isn’t your fuckup either way. It’s mine.” 

  


Stupid, stupid, stupid no one has ever been as stupid as I am. Quietly, “You haven’t done anything wrong, John.” 

  


John shrugs, drops his arms, and I let go of his waist. He doesn’t step back, “I’m starting to feel like that’s a bit of a technicality.” 

  


Wet my dry lips, “It. It isn’t too late, John.”

  


John’s hand is trembling again. He shakes it out, balls a fist. “Will you tell me please,” his voice is a rasp, “exactly how you mean that.”

  


“You don’t have to get married, if you don’t want to get married.” Want to say more. He deserves gentleness, kindness. Would sound ridiculous, coming from me (can’t bear the way she talks to him, but still she’s never been as cruel as I was). “You don’t have to.”

  


“That’s all? That’s all you mean?” John edges forward somehow, though I’d have said there’s nowhere for him to go. 

  


Lick my lips again, “No. It isn’t. John, I.” 

  


“Can I kiss you?” 

  


Lose my words for a moment under John’s keen, dark blue eyes, “Ask me again when we’re sober.” 

  


John nods and nods, “I will. Absolutely I will.” 

  
  


…

  
  


I woke on the sofa in the sitting room at Baker Street, under watery morning light. There was a shaft of sunshine coming in through the unshut curtains, and it pooled on my face. I groaned and squinted against it, and near me, there was a sigh and a soft shuffling. Sherlock was curled on the floor next to the sofa. 

  


He opened his eyes as I looked down at him, “John.”

  


“Good morning,” my voice was hoarse with sleep, and Sherlock smiled at the crack in it. I cleared my throat, “Budge over, will you? I’m dying for the loo.” Sherlock sat up obligingly, and I brushed aside the blanket tossed over me and went off to the necessary. 

  


When I returned, Sherlock was carrying two steaming mugs into the sitting room, “You’ve used my toothbrush. Don’t bother denying it; I see the toothpaste spatter drying on your shirt. You might’ve had a clean one, if you’d looked for it. There’s one for you in the cabinet.”

  


I grinned, “How do you know I didn’t have the clean one?”

  


He set the mugs down on the side table and took his chair, “Why would you? Mine was right there.”

  


I laughed, “Amazing. You see everything.”

  


Sherlock lowered his eyes and smiled almost bashfully, “Not remotely, but thank you for the compliment.” 

  


I crossed to my chair and lifted a mug, relieved to find tea instead of coffee. I blew at the steam, “We should talk.”

  


“Yes,” Sherlock lifted his own mug. “Drink a little tea first before your hangover kills you.” 

  


“I’m fine, actually. Bit of a headache,” I sipped anyway. I let Sherlock drink a little tea also. I reckoned he was projecting a bit. He does that sometimes. “Feeling better?”

  


Sherlock answered me as if he hadn’t heard, “John, I need to tell you something. Something I have been too cowardly and too stupid to say before and you. I was afraid you would be angry with me, and I did not know how to say it, but.” He paused, “Like I said. Cowardly and stupid.” 

  


I was rather taken aback, “That really isn’t how I would describe you.” 

  


He smiled for a moment, then set aside his mug and leaned forward, speaking quickly and earnestly, “You don’t have to get married, John. You don’t, really you don’t. Not to someone who treats you like that. I thought I was only jealous at first, but it  _ isn’t _ that, it isn’t! I let you think before that you were nothing to me, and I can’t abandon you like that again. Marry a hundred women if you like, only please not her. I’ve seen it before John, and it never, ever gets better and sometimes-” he cut himself off, breathing hard, his eyes bright and desperate. 

  


I got sort of lightheaded, hearing it all out loud, but I didn’t quite know how to answer, “A hundred women. That’d be ambitious.” He didn’t laugh, only looked at me. I looked down into my mug, “I’ve got to leave. I know.” Sherlock’s soft sigh of relief was bolstering. I could meet his eye again, “When am I going to stop getting it wrong?”

  


Sherlock pushed forward in his chair and caught my hand, sloshing my tea over my knee, “That wasn’t your fault, John!” My hand trembled in his, and he pressed it gently until it was steady again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  


I took a deep breath, “I asked you for something last night, and erm. You were right. It wasn’t the moment. I’m not asking again right now. But I. I will again soon. Okay?”

  


“Yes,” Sherlock pressed my hand again. “Good.” 

  


…

  
  


So as I’m about to be a washed up old soldier with nowhere to go again, do you think I might come and stay with you?

  
  


Hopefully you’re feeling nostalgic. 

  
  


I’m finding it more and more difficult to even imagine denying you anything you might need, John.  -SH 

  
  


Of course you can stay with me. My home is your home.  -SH 

  
  


Thanks.

  
  


I expect I’ll be seeing you very soon, then. 

  
  


I will be delighted to have you, whenever I do.  -SH

  
  


Anything good on?

  
  


Email from a woman who reckons she had a date with a ghost. Seriously considering taking the case.  -SH 

  
  


You’re joking. 

  
  


Not a bit. I’ll forward you the email.  -SH 

  
  


You’ve got to have me with you, if you take that one. 

  
  


I mean to have you with me as much as humanly possible, John.  -SH 

  
  


Good. I’ll be there. 

  
  


…

  
  


John doesn’t keep me waiting long. He never does. I’m upstairs in John’s bedroom when he comes home (home!). Didn’t hear him on the stairs over the sound of the hoover, but I do hear the flat door when it closes. Shut off the hoover and shove it in the cupboard, then rather frantically plump up his pillows. Descend the stairs two at a time and find John smiling up at me from the bottom of them. He’s got a bag slung over his shoulder and a trunk on the floor behind him. 

  


Under John’s arm is a little damp, white paper bundle, and when I reach him, he holds it out to me, “These are for you.” 

  


It’s a bunch of lavender. I take it from him and bury my nose in it at once, “Thank you.”

  


John smiles at me, “You won’t get to wear any lavender, but I erm. I thought you should have some anyway. Since it suits you so well.”

  


“Thank you,” reach for John’s bag, and he lets me lift it off his shoulders. “How did it go?”

  


John grimaces, “Almost as bad as I thought it would be.” 

  


Lean toward him and wrap him in a hug before I even have the chance to remember that we have never done this before. John eases into me at once, leans flush against my chest so that I can feel the rise and fall of his breath. I squeeze him a little tighter, nose his hair (holding him is such a panoply of intriguing sensations)(must not be swept away in it just now). When we part, I would already like to try it again. Though I feel satisfied that we soon shall. 

  


John takes the strap of his trunk, and steps past me to ascend the stairs up into his bedroom, “Coming?”

  


“Yes. Just behind you.”

  


When we reach his bedroom, John heaves his trunk into the cupboard and smiles to see the hoover stowed there, “You cleaned!”

  


Shrug and set my bunch of lavender on John’s night table, “A bit.”

  


“Thank you,” he smiles at me. “It’s so good to be home.”

  


Trust John to make a feast out of my morsels of thoughtfulness, “It’s so good to have you home.” 

  


Still smiling, John sits down on his bed, leans back against his plump pillows, “I wanted a word. Will you sit with me?”

  


Lower his bag onto the floor and perch on his bed near him. Our knees brush, “Of course.”

  


“How much of my stag night do you remember?”

  


“All of it. I remember everything.”

  


John reaches into his jacket and withdraws a bit of paper from his breast pocket, “I’ve written you a letter. Helps to stay erm. Organised. Writing things down. I’ll read it to you now, if you don’t mind.” He looks at me, pausing to show me that he really does mean to ask my permission. I nod for him to continue, and he unfolds the paper and draws a deep breath, 

  


_ “Dear Sherlock,  _

_ First of all, thank you for being patient with me. You’ve been saving and saving me since I met you, and I seem to keep answering you with fear and uncertainty. I’m sorry for that. All I can say for myself is that I was trying to do what I thought you wanted me to do. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be mistaken, but I wish my mistake hadn’t caused you so much pain and wasted so much time. I can’t promise not to be stupid again, but I do promise to be honest.  _

_ Here is my honesty. I love you with all my heart. You are the best part of my life and of myself, and I want to spend the rest of my days with you. If you’ll have me, however you’ll have me. That is what I want.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ John” _

  


He reads slowly, his eyes fixed on the paper, and his voice is steady until he reaches the penultimate word, and the tremour over ‘yours’ is so faint that I think only I would have known it. I stare at him for a moment (a handful of moments) after he finishes speaking, so awash in longing for what he offers me that I almost cannot move to take it. 

  


Draw nearer to him, take his hand, “Can I kiss you?”

  


John’s face shines relief and dazzling joy, “Yes.”

  


I don’t know how to kiss John. Not exactly. Touch my mouth softly to his in a question of a kiss,  _ like this? _ And he answers me,  _ oh yes, and like this! _ John glides one hand up my back, fondles my neck, teases my curls, and it’s heaven, heaven, heaven. 

  


John sinks back deeper into his pillows, drawing me with him. “Can I see you?” his hand toys with the hem of my shirt, slips up under it to make his meaning plain. “Can I touch you?”

  


“Yes!” wriggle out of my clothes and toss them away. John sheds his too, and then we are naked together, and my silly bleating, buzzing brain quiets, and every bit of me lives in the singing delight of my skin under John’s hands and mouth and eyes. 

  


…

  
  


“I knew you’d get sleepy after,” I brushed aside the curls that had fallen into Sherlock’s eyes. “I always knew you would.”

  


Sherlock’s one visible eye glared at me, “I’m not sleepy, John!”

  


I grinned and kissed his eyebrow to make it smooth out again, “No? You look sleepy.”

  


“A c-” Sherlock turned his face into my pillow to muffle a jaw-cracking yawn, then resumed his glaring in answer to my giggles, “A cunning deception, John. And you’ve fallen for it.”

  


I smoothed his curls back again, “I do love a cunning deception.” 

  


“Mmm, I know you do. And while you’ve been congratulating yourself on making me sleepy, I have been biding my time and plotting what I’m going to do to you next.” 

  


I laughed, “I admit I have been congratulating myself. Tell me what you’re going to do to me next, gorgeous.”

  


“That is for me to know and you to find out,” Sherlock said loftily, though he blushed a little at ‘gorgeous.’ 

  


I found his hand in the blankets and kissed it, “I love finding out.” 

  


“I think,” Sherlock’s blush deepened, “in your current state, you would claim to love anything I do.” 

  


I laughed again, “That is a really brilliant deduction. I might have to put that on the blog. The Adventure of the Really Shiny Afterglow. How’s that for a title?” 

  


“Afterglow,” Sherlock repeated, testing it out.

  


“Do you not know that word?”

  


He shook his head, “I suppose I must have deleted it. Now it’s back, I think it’s really going to get quite a workout.” 

  


I grinned at him, “I hope so.”

  


Sherlock pushed up on his elbow and smiled under my mouth when I interrupted him with a kiss, “Just to be sure I’m using it properly, it’s head-fuzzy loviness you get after a really ruthless orgasm when you’ve put yourself at the mercy of your completely merciless lover.”

  


“Exactly,” I kissed him again, “‘Merciless lover!’ Mmm, that goes double for you, you know. I do love the way you talk.”

  


“Like a very ardent gas bag.” 

  


“Like my Sherlock.” 

  


His face went so soft then that it hurt, “Thank you.” He kissed me. 

  


“...mmm Sherlock?” when he’d got me good and kissed. 

  


“Mm?”

  


“I know,” I paused to let another of his yawns go by then continued, grinning, “I know  _ you’re _ not sleepy, but I am. Do you suppose you might keep me company and sleep too?”

  


Sherlock tucked his curly head under my chin and nodded, “Fortunately, John, humouring you is what I do best.”

  


“Mmm,” I agreed, kissing the top of his head. “Lavender.” 


End file.
